


Prayer to the Stranger

by Sunnytyler001



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnytyler001/pseuds/Sunnytyler001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor had been deadly wounded. Sansa, desperate, seeks out the Stranger him/herself to beg for his life</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayer to the Stranger

Sansa was sitting by the Hound’s bedside. No, she corrected herself. Not the Hound. The Hound was dead. The good Brienne had told her so. The man lying in this bed was Sandor Clegane.  
Sandor.

Her hand slowly caressed his burned cheek and Sansa let a sob escape. The maester had been clear about it: there was no hope. He would not see another day.

In a way, Sansa’s romantic nature should have been pleased. Her knight had come to save her from the monster. Of course, Sandor had never been a knight; but when he had appeared by Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne’s sides, gods, he had looked like one.

He had protected her, using his own body as a shield to guard her life from Cersei Baratheon’s men.

All the knights from the Vale had fallen or fled, but he had stayed, tall and strong. If she had not been so afraid, she would have run to him and given him a kiss. She would have been willing this time. She was not a frightened, silly little bird anymore. She would look at his face, stroke his burned side before bringing her lips to his and showing him how much she had missed him, how much she loved him now.

But there had been no time for happy reunions. Cersei had sent her new champion, Ser Robert Strong. But Ser Robert was no man— even when he was alive, he had never been human. Killing innocent people even beyond death, Gregor Clegane was in the Vale to slay Sansa Stark, but it hadn’t stopped him from butchering everyone who had had the misfortune to cross his path.

It had been poor Mya’s fate. Randa and her father. Lothor Burne. Harry the heir. And her own father…

No, not her father. Not her real father. Petyr Baelish was Alayne’s father, but from the moment she had seen Sandor, she had decided to be Sansa  
again.

The Mountain That Fell But Rose Again had been ready to give her the final stroke when Sandor had run to them and started attacking the living-dead soldier.

The battle had been epic and pitiless; Sandor had succeeded in piercing him several times with his sword, but it had seemed, now, that Gregor Clegane was immortal... until her champion cut the dreadful creature’s head off, killing him for good.

Unfortunately Gregor had had the time to wound him mortally. So the glorious victor of the Mountain fell on the ground, just a few steps away from his monstrous brother.

Sansa had let a scream escape her lips when she saw her true love lying there, still as a corpse. She ran to his side, crying, calling his name, trying vainly with her small hands to stop the blood from leaving his body.

When Brienne had forced her to leave him so a master could see to him, she had been a mess. Her hair undone, her eyes puffy from too much crying, her throat sore from too much screaming, her hands and her dress bloodied- Sandor’s blood. That last thought had broken her heart.

The champion dying for his lady— oh, how many songs told of this? How romantic it all was! But this was not what Sansa wanted for her own song.

She wanted her happy ending. She wanted to be in his strong arms. She wanted to feel the warmth of his skin against hers. She wanted his mouth to ravage hers in a passionate kiss. She wanted…

Oh gods, how improper it was, she really wanted to share her bed with him, give to him what she had denied her husband.

Also, she wanted puppies. Lots of them. Beautiful and fierce, half-wolf, half-dog.

She wanted to grow old by his side, to see his black hair greying, see the distinguished allure it would give him. She wanted to be by his death bed, but not now, not so soon. In twenty, thirty, forty years, after a full, happy life.

But all of this was a foolish dream. He was going to die tonight. She would marry another man, bear his children and see him growing old. Not Sandor.

She wanted to scream and cry again. This was unfair. He had saved them all, he deserved happiness.

Or did the gods see this quiet death, in a warm bed, with his little bird holding his hand, as his reward?

“Lady Sansa?”

Sansa jumped in surprise as she heard Lady Brienne’s courteous voice. It seemed that her new friend understood her torment even if Sansa’s obvious feelings for the Hound had startled her at first.

She hoped the older woman would have less trouble than she did with her heart. Ser Jaime seemed quite enamoured with her. Maybe she would have the chance of getting a full lifetime with her beloved.

Sansa smiled sadly at her friend and took her hand, squeezing it and accepting the strength and the support the Maid of Tarth was willing to give her.

“You should rest a little, Lady Sansa. You are going to kill yourself with sadness.”

Sansa nodded as she remembered the ending of Florian and Jonquil. Damn her! Why couldn’t she pick another song? One with a happy ending, instead of such a tragedy?

“You can die of a broken heart, Brienne,” Sansa answered.

Hesitantly, Brienne took her in her arms. She too had obviously lost someone close to her, someone she loved. But she still had Jaime, hadn’t she? Sansa had lost everyone. Her whole pack was dead now. Her father, her mother, her brothers— gods, even Jon, killed by his own men!— her  
sister, and now Sandor. They were with the Stranger and she was alone.

Brienne was right, she needed to walk. She rose and, leaving Sandor to Brienne’s care, she decided to go to the Sept.

Surely, the Gods would listen to her prayers.

Or would they? Sansa felt rage rising inside her. No, they wouldn’t. They had left her, deserted her. She had always been a good girl, always obedient and pious. She had always respected them and, when she needed them the most, where were they? Somewhere else, obviously. Making some  
cunning man like Littlefinger richer, raising some monster like Gregor Clegane from the grave. In real life, the monsters win. And even when they didn’t, they always found a way to spoil everyone’s happy ending.

Sansa looked at the Gods’ statues and she felt like destroying them. She wanted to take an axe and cut them into pieces or burn them like she had heard Lord Stannis had once done.

And, anyway, what was she doing in the Sept? Sandor didn’t believe in any gods. He would surely mock her if he knew she was praying for him, once again.

Not to the Mother, that traitor. Yes, she had asked for Sandor’s rage to be calmed. Calmed, yes, but not by death!

As Sansa’s eyes fell on the Stranger’s statue, she shivered. Maybe it wasn’t the Mother who had heard her prayer. Maybe it had been the Stranger.

After all, Sandor had committed quite a blasphemy, naming his horse after him. Sansa smiled despite herself, thinking that, even if it was a blasphemy, no other name would have suited Sandor’s horse so well.

Collecting her courage, Sansa kneeled in front of the Stranger’s statue. In fact it seemed right even if she had never prayed to this divinity.  
Sandor was dying— who better than the God of Death himself to help him?  
Sansa took a deep breathing and closed her eyes a moment. She thought of Sandor, of his grey eyes that didn’t look so angry anymore, of his broad chest where she hoped she could one day rest her head, of his dark hair that could actually be silky if it was properly washed. She thought of his hands, huge and scarred, the hands of a warrior, hands that could both give death and save her from the mob.

Sansa joined her hands together, squeezing them in despair.

The Gods could not take him from her. Not now. Not after everything that had happened. Not when she had so much to tell him: about his cloak, about the kiss she never forgot, about her dreaming of him, about how she regretted not going with him, about how she was sorry she was unable to look at his face and see him, the real him. To see Sandor, her friend, her true, loyal, honest friend, instead of the Hound.

She had been blind, she had been a very silly little bird. For this, she had to apologize to him. Surely, the Gods couldn’t be so cruel. They would give her enough time to let her tell him everything she needed to. Wouldn’t they?

Raising her eyes to the Stranger’s statue, Sansa whispered, “Please.”

There was no need for any other words. He would know. He had to.

After lighting a candle, Sansa went straight to Sandor’s room and replaced Brienne at his bedside once again. The Maid of Tarth sent her a worried look. She had almost certainly been hoping that Sansa would be asleep in her own room by now, but the fact was that she couldn’t rest.

Not when she could lose him in a few hours. Not after yearning for him for so long.

Once Brienne was gone, Sansa went closer to the bed and caressed his hair. It wasn’t silky, but damp with sweat. His fever had risen again. She took a clean, wet towel and laid it down on his high forehead.

Her poor love.

Sansa felt her tears running again down her cheeks. If she had to lose him tonight, at least, she would give him back the kiss he had stolen that one frightful night.

She took a deep breath, nervous, marvelling that it was the first time she would actually be the one giving a kiss instead of undergoing the attentions of Lord Baelish or Harry’s.

Both dead men, Sansa thought darkly. Why does death always surround me?

It seemed that the Stranger loved her company. Maybe if Sandor did die, she would adopt his horse. Wherever he would be, heaven or hell, Sansa was sure Sandor would like that. He had always loved his horse and would know his faithful companion was in good hands.

“But please, oh please…”

Sansa let the words escape her lips, praying to the Stranger one last time for a miracle, as her mouth reached down for Sandor’s.

Her lips brushed his and it felt strange, very different from her memories. The good side of his mouth was plump and sweet while the burnt side was a bit raspy. In a way, Sansa thought that it tickled and it made her smile. This dissymmetry was not unpleasant, quite the contrary. Feeling bolder, as she knew this was most likely her last chance, Sansa let her tongue taste both sides of his mouth. Inside her head, Sansa smiled at her audacity. Randa would have been proud, no doubt. Sansa also knew that she would not have liked to do such a thing with Petyr or Harry.

This kiss belonged to Sandor, and only him.

If only he was healthy, he would grab both sides of her face and return that kiss passionately. She would crawl into his bed and his hands would go down to caress her back before… oh, before lots of things… before everything.

She would give him everything. Even her precious maidenhead. After all, it was not like Septa Mordane was there to scold her about it. And  
Petyr’s sly plans had died with him, anyway.

Feeling suddenly sleepy, Sansa decided she would spend the last few hours of the night in her beloved’s bed. After all, he had slept in her bed once. It was quite time for her to return the favour.  
She found herself outside. The chill in the air made her shiver. Winter was there now; her father’s wise words had taken their full meaning.

Instead of preparing herself for it, she had had her head full on songs, fair ladies and handsome knights. Silly little bird.

The wintery landscape was beautiful, the snow covering the ground as a white carpet, but the trees had lost all their leaves and seemed dead.  
Sansa frowned. She knew those trees. Those were the sacred trees, the trees of the Godswood! They shouldn’t have lost their leaves. Sansa ran to one of them and, hesitantly, touched its bark.

Dead. They were all dead.

Winter was the perfect time for the Stranger: it was his Kingdom. Was it a coincidence some already called her the queen of Winter? She had thought they named her like this because she was a Northerner, a Stark and it was winter… But perhaps it was because, just like the Stranger, everyone and everything she touched died. Her family. Her direwolf. Winterfell. Her friends. And now Sandor.

Suddenly, she heard the croaking of a crow behind her and she jumped in terror. He was there. Did he want to claim her? Or was he just warning her it was time for Sandor to leave her, just like everyone eventually did?

“No!” Sansa screamed.

No, not now, not so soon, not today.

Please…

When Sansa woke up in the morning, she felt two strong hands on her waist, holding her close to a massive chest. She gasped, realizing whose chest it was and how warm it felt. This was no corpse by her side.

She opened her eyes and saw a very much alive Sandor Clegane, whose hands were exploring below her dress. Wicked hands, weren’t they? But they were creating a thousand wonderful sensations on her naked skin.

Sansa shivered in pleasure and moved even closer to Sandor.

“Good morning, little bird,” Sandor said, smiling, as his right hand brushed against her small clothes.

“Good morning, Lord Sandor,” Sansa said, blushing, but happier than she had ever been.

“I had a strange dream… of someone kissing me?”

Sansa laughed and let her lips brush against his. “Quite a good dream, then?” she replied.

“Yes, yes, it was…” He looked at her, a certain fire and appetite in his eyes, “I think I am going to enjoy my reward.”

“Aren’t you just?” Sansa said, smiling. “But you’re still quite weak, you should not risk reopening your wounds.”

Sandor nodded and let Sansa get down out of the bed.

“I don’t know who you prayed to, Sansa, but… it worked. Thank you.”

She smiled and stroked Sandor’s cheek before kissing him softly.

She closed her eyes for a moment and sent a silent thank you to the Stranger. Whoever had said the God of Death was evil knew nothing.


End file.
